


we are broken

by timorous_scribe



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 05:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timorous_scribe/pseuds/timorous_scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We take comfort in each other, and shame ourselves for needing it--a human conundrum. This is a moment of Santana’s grief management.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are broken

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t really been writing, but this kinda just grabbed me and spit itself out forcibly on my drive home from work yesterday.

You wake up when the bed shifts under her weight, sleepily pulling her into your arms without really opening your eyes.

It doesn’t really matter what time it is, but it’s late, you know that much. You didn’t even get in bed until after 2 (thanks to Marie who is _always_ late when it’s a graveyard shift she’s covering) and you know she wasn’t here when you fell asleep.

She curls into your body, small and trembling, and you turn to your side so you can tangle your legs together and let her tuck her face into your neck, your chin resting by her ear. You’ve learned that she likes to be wrapped up and held, and in the abstract of the midnight hours you can’t pretend you don’t crave the comforting contact.

Your hands come up to pet lightly through her hair, her warmth lulling you back into slumber as you feel some of the tension in her shoulders start to loosen in your embrace. You’re only distantly aware of your shirt being pushed up your belly, but then the desperate way she squeezes your tits brings you fully alert in seconds. Her fingers are icy but the stroke of them leaves a scalding trail down your abdomen, anyway.

You hesitate for only a moment--she doesn’t--when she slides them into your underwear and starts rubbing slow circles over your pussy with all four fingers, the heel of her hand pressing over your clit. Your treacherous body thrums under the treatment, but you still grab her wrist, not pulling her away but not letting her continue.

This isn’t the first time it’s happened like this. It’s not even the first time this _week_. But the honorable part of you still has to at least attempt to dissuade her, it just feels wrong on so many levels.

“We--”

“ _Please_ …”

It’s such a dry and ragged, _hollow_ sort of sound that you feel your momentary hesitation crumble. This is so fucked up right now, but since Finn _everything_ is fucked up and that broken plea melts the protest right out of you. She deserves at least this much from you, this much you can give; it’s not like you’ve been very emotionally available the past month.

You release your grip on her wrist and trail your hand up her arm to tangle in her hair at the back of her head, touching your lips to hers briefly before nodding and kissing her again, slower this time.

You can give her this much, she’s been there for all of you this last month and it was the last thing you would’ve ever expected.

The whole situation is the last thing you would’ve ever expected.

Your gasp is raw when her fingers enter you roughly, her teeth laying claim to your neck at the same moment, and you’re grateful for the reprieve from your thoughts. Everything you do, he can’t. Everything you feel… he can’t, and remembering that fact fractures your vision and distorts _everything_.

You lift your hips against her hand and she grunts, biting harder into your neck. Some detached part of your brain hopes she doesn’t leave a mark. As much as your guilt would keep you from bitching about it, and in any other reality you would wear it proudly, in _this_ reality most everyone around you is still deeply in grief--including yourself, a hushed voice reminds--and raising flags of your sexual exploits feels disrespectful, even for you.

“Do you want me to…” you trail off the whisper, the hand not buried in her hair pushing tentatively up her thigh from where it’s been pressed between your body and the bed. She nods, not releasing the flesh in her teeth and that detached part of your brain starts planning outfits with scarves.

She hooks her leg over your hip to give you room to move and your fingers slide inside her easily, matching her rough thrusts. An animal sort of noise, guttural and sharp, escapes from deep in her chest and you’re oddly stricken with wonder at what the human mind will do to cope, how it translates intense emotion fluidly--anguish is rage, grief is lust, lust is comfort.

At least this, you can understand. This, you’re not afraid of.

Neither of you speaks again--what could you even say?--the only sound in the room the wet noises of your movements and the rasping sound of harsh breathing. It’s enough.

She finally releases her bite, her head falling back and mouth dropped open with heaving breaths as her body spasms against you violently. You watch her face as her orgasm breaks, your chest aching as tears leak out of the corners of her eyes and her brow furrows deeply.

You’re both panting each other’s air, her fingers have stilled inside you, and you’re surrounded by the scent of sex. The blood rushing in your ears slows to a dull roar, to where your awareness starts to filter back--Kurt’s white noise machine, some asshole neighbor’s stereo outside, her hitched breaths.

Everything you hear, he can’t. Everything you feel...he can’t.

You pull your hand away from her, bringing it still damp up to cup her cheeks and press your forehead to hers. She kisses you softly and whispers a broken ‘ _thank you_ ’ that shatters your heart all over again.

She shouldn’t be thanking you; you aren’t him, and you haven’t made waking up tomorrow in this fucked up new reality any easier. A wrenching dry sob wracks your chest and she tightens her arms around you and squeezes, nodding in silent commiseration as you feel her own tears paint your neck.

Yes, it’s completely fucked up, and the thought of Dani sends a tidal wave of guilt washing over you that just makes you sob that much harder, but you can give Rachel at least this much.


End file.
